


daily feel a stab of hunger

by gabriphales



Category: Good Omens (TV), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Crossover, Flirting, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No Plot/Plotless, Unresolved Tension, also az is a fucking cannibal lol, bc my bf loves gomens and hannibal, i might write more on this idk its an anniversary gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: pretty much what it says on the tin - doctor fell, and special agent anthony crowley
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 8





	daily feel a stab of hunger

**Author's Note:**

> this is plotless and just a gift for my bf so shhhh it doesnt make sense it has no point its fine

“thank you, especially for letting me come over on such short notice. i don't know what happened, couldn't tell you if i tried. i was simply . . . awash with my feelings. it felt unsafe to be alone like that.” crowley hovers at the dining table, unsure if sitting down would be polite without invitation. aziraphale’s warm, resounding smile seems permission enough, as he wipes down a wine glass, and pours crowley a fine, ornate brew. dark red, smelling of some thick berry ambrosia. he coughs politely, clearing his throat, and shuffling into his seat.

“i, er, am not particularly familiar with this line of drink.” he says, eyes catching on the glinting silverware, shining with reflected lights from the ceiling above. 

“oh?” aziraphale says, a little more interested than crowley would give himself credit for. generally, he attracts the wrong sorts of interest. psychiatrists eager to have first pick of their prey, scavenging for some hint of clear sense in his muddled lines. crowley doesn't like being picked apart. he certainly isn't something worth searching through. but aziraphale seems to dig deeper as a _friend._ with cheerful, inviting questions that prompt more from crowley than he’s often comfortable giving. even so, he offers himself without hesitation. that's just something about aziraphale he’s gotten used to - somehow, for some reason or another, he melts into comfort when he's around. his very presence is soothing, a molt that shreds crowley of his stresses, letting his shoulders lose the tension he carries like how bones support bodies.

perhaps that's why he makes such a renowned psychiatrist.

“i’m more of a whiskey fellow, myself.” crowley chuckles, the sound getting caught in his throat, stumbling like feet down an icy stairwell.

“well,” aziraphale pours himself his own glass, tilting back a sip as he savors the flavor with a delicacy that feels beyond crowley. “i find the finer drinks quite comforting. helps one relax the mind without losing it entirely.”

“what’s this, then?” crowley asks. “i mean, i know it’s wine, i just - what type?” he flounders, feeling all the more foolish for his inexperience in this field.

“zinfandel,” aziraphale smiles helpfully, still polite to an excruciating manner, despite crowley’s obvious embarrassment. “aged in american oak, with a very rich, deep taste.”

crowley’s wrist trembles as he takes his first sip, lips quivering against the cool glass, as if afraid of leaving behind any trace, any hint of foggy breath. “it’s lovely.” he finally says, lost for words in comparison to how aziraphale exquisitely carries himself. aziraphale pats at his shoulder, giving a gentle, reassuring squeeze, and nods - just once, anything more would be too much, and he knows it.

“i’m glad you think so.” he says, adjusting his suit lapels, and turning to the doorway. “i’m afraid you’ve just missed dinner, but i’ve always room for dessert. give it a moment to cool off, and it should be ready any minute now.”

“what are you making?” crowley calls after him as he heads back to the kitchen, the room feeling cold, quiet without aziraphale’s company to warm it. conversation, he _needs_ conversation right now. that’s the whole reason he’d even left home in the first place. his fingers twitch, unsteady and restless in his lap, fervent to get something done, to _do something._ standing, he finds he can’t bear another moment on his own. and, swallowing his pride, he hurries after aziraphale like a hopeless child chasing their parent down. his feet carrying him at a brisk, half-walk, half-tripping-liability pace.

“i’m sorry,” he says, catching himself as he stands in the kitchen’s doorway, edging nervously in. “just couldn’t stand being alone. i’m, uh, not at my best, currently, and could use . . . monitoring.”

“you are a friend to look after, crowley.” aziraphale tells him, the golden yellow in his tone a candlelight crowley desperately wants to warm his hands over. “not an animal to watch. here, stay by my side. i’ll ensure that nothing happens to you.”

“you’re too kind,” crowley laughs, regretting it no less than a spark later. “i mean - not _too_ kind, i just - er, you’re - i’m not, i don’t - “

aziraphale faces him, hands on his shoulders as the gap between them lessens, shortening until they’re close enough for crowley to be basked in his light, gauzewrapped in his simmering warmth. the lines across his face all speak a soft, understanding expression. even so, crowley can’t help squirming beneath the intense gaze. 

“i assure you, dear fellow, you _do_ deserve it. all the kindness i can offer, i’m more than happy to oblige.” aziraphale says, the back of his hand tracing against crowley’s cheek, swerving distance from one end of his cheekbone to the other. crowley stiffens, but without lingering too much on the thought of _why should he,_ he melts into it. relaxing incrementally as aziraphale cups his temple, seemingly fascinated with something, _something_ about him - crowley can’t imagine what.

“your eyes,” aziraphale says, intrigued beyond compare. “are they contacts?”

“what? oh, no - just, naturally came out like this. s’ppose it must have been a birth defect; they’re all . . . _snakey._ ” crowley blabbers, his tongue feeling thick, heavy in his mouth while aziraphale is so close, so near he can see it all. everything crowley shushes and shoos away, his vulnerabilities, his - well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. clearly, aziraphale doesn’t seem to _mind_ anything he sees. more than that, he’s quite . . . quite interested, to say the least. 

“what a dazzling color,” aziraphale speaks softly, as if he’s murmuring more to himself than crowley. observing a fine piece of art, and taking notes for further study. “and the pupils - marvelous shape. you could stun any room you walk into.”

“and frighten old ladies with a potent fear of the devil.” crowley scoffs, trying - and failing - terribly to laugh off aziraphale’s apparent enchantment. aziraphale’s thumb strokes over his cheekbone now, faintly, fondly, almost familiar. and it has crowley shaking where he stands. hands fisting the insides of his pockets, holding on for dear life as the very ground seems to shift beneath him.

“you’re certainly nothing of a demon to me, dear boy.” aziraphale mutters, tucking red velvet curls behind crowley’s ear, and leaving his hand there to burn etchings in crowley’s skin. “more like that of an _angel,_ really.”

and crowley - crowley pulls back, because what else can he do, when standing like that has him buckling with tears, his eyes undoubtedly shining, glossy as a doll’s. “when,” he stammers, “when will the dessert be - er, ready?”

“oh!” aziraphale blossoms with excitement, turning to pull his carefully-crafted treat from the oven, and setting it on the counter. “bread pudding,” he explains, tracing his finger along the golden crust. “with hints of dark chocolate, oh, you simply _must_ have a bite, allow me to - “

he grabs for his knife, propping up a small mouthful on a fork, and holding it out for crowley to bite. crowley flushes, the intimacy of being fed, catered to hasn't failed him. he parts his lips slightly, shy, and uncertain as he cranes his neck. aziraphale encourages him with a tilting glance, and the most _amused_ little giggle - well, how can crowley deny him like that? he takes the bite, chewing, and trying to look thoughtful as he does. it's delicious, rich and creamy, smooth as it washes over his tongue. the chocolate satisfies crowley’s sweet tooth, and he nods his head, mumbling without thinking about the food in his mouth, “‘s really good.”

“why, thank you ever so kindly, dear pet. if you're keen to stay the night, i’ll open up a guest room for you, make it nice and cozy, utterly inhabitable.” aziraphale says, the clear nudging to his words fraying at crowley’s nerves, setting him on edge, but he pushes his worries aside. of course, he's grateful for the hospitality. with everything aziraphale’s done for him, he’ll have to find a proper way to show his gratitude.

“i can just sleep on the couch, brought blankets from home, don't mind, really.” he says.

“oh, i insist,” aziraphale presses harder, a sharp glint of something undeniable - yet untraceable, at the same time - in the stare he gives crowley. “the spare bedroom is just down the hall, to the left, and i’ve got plenty of quilts to keep you warm. hand-sewn, by yours truly.”

his hand is taking crowley’s before there's time to pause the gentle push and pull; aziraphale leads crowley to the hallway, pointing out which door will be his for the evening. crowley’s pulse thrums faster, touch-starved as he is, there’s quite a lot that aziraphale’s comfortable doing that crowley hasn't felt in some time. warm, soft skin against his own. budding, rosy knuckles beside his rock sharp ones. crowley gathers himself, maintaining what little dignity he can as he breathes out, “thank you, so - just, god, so much. i’ll just - unpack my stuff in there, and be back for dessert.”

he needs the brevity of a moment alone, the space to crack himself in order, pull his muscles taut and tight once more. he’s gone so loose with aziraphale, like a mushy pudding himself, and when aziraphale’s done fluffing the pillows, making things more _amenable,_ as he says, crowley falls to the bed, feeling inexplicably exhausted.

exhausted, and even stranger, content.

**Author's Note:**

> az definitely would eat people if he had no morals he loves food


End file.
